Longnight
Disclaimer: All characters and locations herein are the property of Tamora Pierce. Plot and actual written words owned by me.
"All I'm saying is, it's rather depressing," said Rosethorn, who had plopped herself down on one of the straw-seated chairs and was busy pulling off her muddy boots.
Lark's eyes twinkled merrily when she spoke. "Just because you weren't born in spring doesn't mean you'll wilt, Rosie."
"I know, Lark. Honestly, I'm well past thinking I'm a plant!" retorted Rosethorn with an outraged scowl, keeping to herself those dreams she still had sometimes in which she was a tree.
"Birthdays mean very little, dear," said Lark, more patiently. She was moving about the kitchen, setting water to boil for tea and stocking the fire against the cold winter winds. "Really, considering what you've done with your life and your magic, I don't see why you're so concerned about having been --"
"Don't say it!" warned Rosethorn.
"-- Born on the shortest day of the year," Lark finished her words determinedly.
Rosethorn sighed with exasperation, then shrugged.
Lark went over to her and wrapped an arm around her from either side. "You know you're being silly, Rosie," she murmured in her ear.
"Yes," replied Rosethorn, "but I can't help it. Must we celebrate my birthday in this dreary weather? Can't we wait for some sunshine?" She turned to look at Lark, and the misery of cold and rain was reflected in her eyes.
Lark kissed her nose lightly and said, "We can celebrate it on Midsummer, if it'll please you."